


Washington Square North

by chelseagirl



Series: Finding Home [2]
Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Repairing the Damage, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelseagirl/pseuds/chelseagirl
Summary: Newly divorced, John Schuyler Moore returns to New York, and looks forward to meeting Sara Howard once more.
Relationships: Sara Howard/John Schuyler Moore
Series: Finding Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892641
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75





	1. John Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Part one is from John's point of view, and is entirely rated PG.
> 
> Part two is from Sara's, and is, um, not.

I.

Washington Square had changed a great deal from the time John Schuyler Moore and his new bride, Violet, had moved uptown in 1898, not too long after their wedding. Violet had wanted to be nearer to her godfather – her father, that is – and her society friends, and Hearst had offered to provide a house far more lavish than the one John had inherited from his grandmother. While old families, in their faded gentility, still clung to the area, new money wanted to be uptown. It had been the height of the Gilded Age, with its mansions and its promenades in the park. Central Park, that is, not Washington Square.

In April of 1921, when John returned after the requisite six-month residence in Reno, Nevada that had enabled him and Violet to dissolve a marriage which had effectively been over for years, the neighborhood was much different. Developers were beginning to circle, and there was talk of putting apartment buildings on the west side of the park. The university which, decades later, was to purchase most of the remaining houses on the north side of the Square, had an outpost in the neighborhood. But mostly, it was ensconced in a lovely McKim, Mead and White campus in the Bronx. The old families had gone, except for a few eccentrics, an elderly lady or two, and a handful of lawyers and professors who’d hung onto the homes of their parents or grandparents, as being finer than anything they could afford on their own salaries. Greenwich Village was now an immigrant neighborhood and a bohemian one, full of workers and artists and poets.

John Schuyler Moore knew he was going to love it.

The _Times_ had given John a leave of absence, while he sat out the six months in Nevada. Management was thrilled that one of their best men was finally freeing himself from his Hearst entanglements. John had spent the time in Reno writing a book, the one he’d told Laszlo Kriezler he was going to write when they saw each other after Theodore Roosevelt’s funeral, back in 1919. But he never tried to get it published, which considering his position at the _Times_ , would have been easy enough.

There was simply too much Sara in it. He’d lied about her in the book, said there’d been nothing but friendship between them save for one drunken proposal long before the events that had brought himself, Kriezler, and Sara together. A proposal that had resulted in Sara dunking him in the river which, as far as John was concerned, he’d deserved -- even if it hadn’t happened that way at all. The book might have been good publicity for the Howard Detective Agency, but Sara had achieved plenty of success on her own. She was practically legendary, in certain circles. Miss Howard didn’t need him. And despite anything and everything that had been said when she’d visited Hearst Castle the previous summer, at architect Julia Morgan’s invitation, that was something he feared was true.

He’d written to Sara, explained why he wouldn’t be back in New York City in the fall after all. She’d replied with a note which simply said _You know where to find me._ And nothing since, though he wrote to her once or twice a month, describing the drives he’d taken through the stunning Nevada landscape, the progress he was making on the book, and how he hoped she was keeping well.

II.

808 Broadway, where the Howard Detective Agency still kept its offices, was a short walk from Washington Square North. Still, it took John three days to work up his courage to go and see Sara. He could have phoned her, of course, but somehow that seemed even worse. On the first day, he told himself that he was tired from traveling, and on the second, he’d celebrated his return with a drink, which had turned into two, which had turned into too many. Which was strange, because in Reno he’d given up drinking again.

The next morning he woke up late, and slightly foggy-headed, but a couple of large cups of coffee put him right again. He spent far too long getting ready, fussing over which tie to wear. Were his watch and chain too old-fashioned, or would they awaken a pleasant nostalgia in Sara? “You’re a foolish old man,” he said to the image in the mirror. But then he reminded himself it was Sara, not Violet, he was dressing for anyway. His wife, once the honeymoon was over, had taken to making suggestions, and later demands, about his appearance. Not that he blamed her – she’d felt such pressure to conform, to fit in. He’d often suggested that they didn’t have to please those people, that he had colleagues at work with wives whose company he was sure she’d enjoy. But she’d just shrugged, and said that people were what they were, and they had their place to fill in society.

Hearst might have indulged his illegitimate daughter, but he’d damaged her, too. John had been relieved when Violet had taken a lover, someone who’d chosen her for herself, not because another woman had broken his heart. Someone she’d chosen, too, not just for his name and his appearance and the other qualities on her list. The man was serious enough about her that he’d followed them out to California. Once John finally relocated to Reno, Violet’s lover moved into her suite in Hearst Castle. Since Hearst and Marion Davies were living openly together, no objections were raised; anyway, it was 1921, not 1897. But John knew that Violet, bless her conventional heart, was anxious to marry again. 

John was happy for them, something he whispered into Violet’s ear as he kissed her on the cheek goodbye. They’d see each other again, at the children’s graduations and weddings. Eventually, there would be grandchildren. They’d wish each other well, like strangers with one interest in common. And then John handed Violet the keys to the car, since the car was Hearst’s, just like everything else.

”Think of me in my castle,” she said, “and I’ll think of you in that newsroom you love so much.”

”Farewell, Princess,” he said, with a tinge of regret. He still cared for her, for all that there was nothing left between them. She’d given him children, after all, and she adored them, as he did. And then the taxi came, and it was Los Angeles, and then the long train back to New York.

The woman at the reception desk clearly didn’t know who John was, and made some kind of fuss about whether Miss Howard was available or not. Luckily, Bitsy Sussman – no, John corrected himself, Bitsy Isaacson – was walking past, a pile of documents in her arms.

“Why, Mister Moore, it has been a time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has. Is she in?” John found himself looking over her shoulder, hoping to catch at least a glimpse in the distance.

Bitsy shook her head, and John noticed that her dark hair was greying, just as his own was. “No. She’s in meetings uptown all day. I’ll make sure to let her know you called in.”

“Do you know her plans for the evening?”

“I don’t. But if you’d like to leave word where you’ll be – I can’t promise anything. I know she’ll be happy to see you; she was always so fond of . . . . Well.” She cut herself off, abruptly. “It’s just . . . at the moment . . . things are very busy.”

He hadn’t really expected it to be otherwise. And he remembered there was a gentleman friend. But he’d hoped. “No real plans – still recovering from the journey. There’s a bistro near the house where I’ll probably dine. The house on Washington Square – she knows it. And then back to the Times tomorrow.”

Bitsy smiled. “You and Miss Howard, between you. It may take a week before you manage to be in the same place.”

“I hope not.”

“But you’ll get there.”

And he wondered what Bitsy knew.

III.

John returned home from dinner a bit past nine. Having indulged in the better part of a bottle of wine, to soothe his feelings about being so near and yet so far from Sara, he was surprised to find her sitting on the stairs leading to his front door.

”I was about to leave a note,” she said.

”I’m delighted to see you here.” They looked at each other, uncomfortably. When they’d parted ways in California the previous summer, there had been a mutually expressed interest in revisiting the possibilities they’d walked away from, over twenty years ago. But now, here they were, and it was clear that neither knew exactly what to say. John felt as though the wine he’d drunk was hitting him all at once. ”Would you like to come in?”

”Yes,” said Sara, and nothing more. John couldn’t help but smile at that – direct and to the point, as always.

He fumbled in his pocket for the key, telling himself that it was ridiculous to feel so nervous. This was Sara, who he’d known so well, once. Who’d been so honest about everything. Who wouldn’t play the games the Violet had played, in the beginning and throughout their marriage, until there was no need anymore. Except there were things Sara had difficulty talking about at all, he amended.

Key found, he opened the door, and stepped back to let her enter first. The house and its furnishings hadn’t changed much during the years he’d rented it out, except they’d grown shabbier. But somehow it felt more like home than ever. Home. Funny that the thing he’d been looking for turned out to be so different than what he’d expected.

He ushered Sara into the parlor, where she sat in the nearest armchair. She removed the cloche she was wearing. He was reminded of the hats she used to wear, the small boaters tilted forward in a jaunty but businesslike manner. Her light blonde hair, which she hadn’t bobbed after all, but still wore in a simple braided knot at the back of her head, looked much the same as ever. He suspected when he looked closely there would be some white among the gold, but it didn’t show. She was nearly fifty, younger than he, and to his eyes, she’d not aged much – certainly not twenty years‘ worth. She wore a black skirt with a white blouse and black jacket, much as in the old days, though the cuts were simpler, the skirt shorter and less voluminous, as was the current fashion.

”How have you been, since last summer?” he asked, knowing how vapid the conventional question really was.

She smiled, and he felt a weight lifting from him. “I feel as though you’re about to offer me tea and crumpets.”

”There might be some tea in the kitchen. I haven’t really seen to anything since I’ve been back. And the tenants cleared out according to schedule last fall, so this poor old house has been sitting empty, waiting.” And then he laughed. “I’ve missed you. Ever since last summer, I’ve felt pulled back here. The Reno divorce made best sense, but six months was a very long time.” He shook his head. “Sara, I’ve missed you for a lot longer than that.”

She’d never been comfortable talking about feelings, he knew that. “I’ve enjoyed your letters – I framed a few of the sketches you sent in them. And I have so many stories about cases you missed out on. Laszlo consulted on some of them. But those will wait.” She stood up and took a few steps towards him. “After I got back, last summer, I broke things off with Frederick – the friend I told you about. I’d let it go on for too long, anyhow.”

Something about the way she said that struck him uncomfortably. “Is that what this will be? Something with an expiration date?”

In response, she closed up the remaining space between them. “No. I don’t think so. I think this is different.” 

He met her eyes. “You’ve never left my heart, Sara. I won’t disrespect you by lying and saying I was never fond of Vee, in all those years. But it was never what I felt for you. ” He raised his hand to touch the side of her face, as he recalled doing in this same house, so long ago. “Now let’s stop talking. There’ll be time for all that later.”

”Thank goodness,” she said, and with that, she leaned up to kiss him on the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who've read Caleb Carr's original novel will recognize John's memoir as being consistent with Carr's work; if you haven't read the books yet, John is narrator of The Alienist (and Stevie of The Angel of Darkness). And the Washington Square North address is from the original book, as well -- in the television series, the grandmother's house is near, but not on, Washington Square. Otherwise, characterizations and relationships are from the TV version. I love both, but canon diverges pretty significantly, especially in The Angel of Darkness.


	2. Sara Responds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion from Sara's POV. Some explicit content.

IV.

She’d always thought he was almost too handsome, with that tall, athletic frame and his perfectly tailored suits. It was embarrassing to recall, but one of the reasons she’d resisted for so long was because she felt shallow, admitting her attraction to him. And by the time she’d come to recognize that he admired her for the right reasons, that he had no problem letting her take the lead, that they fit so well together, it was too late.

So when, last summer in California, he’d told her his marriage was over, and that he’d be returning to New York City without Violet, she’d let him hope. She’d let herself hope. He had the children he’d wanted; they were his great joy. So he no longer needed from her the things she couldn’t give him.

He must have known, when they made love that once, during the Libby Hatch case, that it was her first time. Her only time, for a long while. But as she made a life for herself, as she gained confidence in her independence, she’d discovered that she could take lovers. (The fact that she’d learned about reliable methods to prevent conception had also played a role.) That, as long as she set the limits to begin with, she could enjoy that companionship. One, no, two of them, had fallen in love, and taken their dismissal poorly.

She wouldn’t mind it, if John fell in love with her. Fell in love with her, again.

She didn’t think she’d want to let him go.

As their lips gently brushed, she felt an unfamiliar thrill. It hadn’t been like this, not since, well. She leaned up and into the kiss, as it deepened, grew more intense. But as their lips parted, and she sought his tongue with hers, she was surprised that he pulled back, almost as if startled. After a moment, his mouth sought hers again, and this time he responded, eagerly and avidly.

Their bodies pressed tightly together, but because of the difference in their heights, she was standing on tiptoe, and he was leaning down towards her. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “I haven’t settled in much, but I’ve got one room made up.” One bedroom, he meant. He held her hand as they walked up the stairs, but he looked resolutely upwards.

”Are you afraid I’ll disappear if you look back at me?” He could almost hear the smile in her voice.

”Eurydice? But no, it’s you who can bring me back to life, not the other way around.”

The house, though old fashioned, had had electricity laid on some time ago. But when they reached the bedroom, he lit a couple of candles instead of switching on the lights. “We’re not as young as we once were,” he explained. “Let’s just this one night pretend no time has passed, and in the morning we’ll look forward to who we are now.”

”Rather poetic, but I disagree,” said Sara, and switched on the bedside lamp. “We are who we are.” John’s hair was a mixture of brown and silver now, and glinted in the lamplight. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes had deepened, but only made him look more distinguished. And as he removed his jacket, she noticed how strong and fit he looked. In California he’d told her how he’d vented his frustrations and worked off the absurdly lavish meals at Hearst Castle by swimming, rowing, running, bicycling. His body was as strong and fit as ever.

Sara slipped off her jacket, and laid it on a chair near the bed. Since she wore her hair simply, she had merely to remove a few pins, unwind the braid, and unloose it. He came up behind her, and stroked its gossamer softness, as it streamed down, below her shoulders, down her back. Sliding an arm around her, he pulled her around and into a deep kiss, this time more sure of himself. They pressed close to each other, as though to close the gap of years they’d passed apart.

After what felt like forever and no time at all, he loosened his hold around her, and she likewise slipped her arms from around his neck. As he resumed undressing, she smiled to see that he stripped down, almost efficiently. She couldn’t help but admire his muscles, the flatness of his belly, his long, strong legs and his firm buttocks. Her lovers had mostly been men of about her age, some a little younger, the last one a decade older. None of them had looked remotely like this.

Sara took off her blouse and skirt. She went to unhook her stockings and roll them down, but he gently took over, and rolled the silk stockings down her legs. She enjoyed the sensation of his hands sliding along her skin, and the way he gently slipped off her shoes and the stockings.

They stood now, looking at each other – she in her combinations, cut plainly but of luxurious silk, and he in a pair of cotton shorts like a boxer might wear. He slid one strap off her shoulder, and then the other, and her undergarment slid down and pooled at her feet. His hand came up, and he stroked her breast, trailing his fingers across her smooth skin in a circular motion, teasing her nipple as it hardened beneath his touch. Again, he touched and stroked the other breast, and the sensation sent a rush of desire through her.

She pulled him down onto the bed, and they lay side by side, touching, caressing, kissing one another. John slid down his shorts, so they were naked together, once again.

Sara kissed his collarbone, licking gently at it, then exploring further downward, his nipples, the taut muscles of his belly, down to his navel. She took his penis in her hand, stroking it gently, and as he moaned, more firmly.

”Stop,” he said. “That is – I thought we might . . .”

”Yes.”

He pulled up and away from her, and reached into the drawer of the bedside table. “Should I?”

”This time,” she said. She was touched he assumed, at her age, that it was still an issue – but she herself wasn’t entirely certain, yet.

He slid on top of her, and she enjoyed the feel of his skin against hers, as he entered her, slowly. She was wet as she received him, so wet, and she tightened around him, intensifying the feeling as his thrusts increased in intensity. Harder and faster and deeper until she’d lost all awareness of anything else, of this single act between them, and then in a flash of light and pleasure, she climaxed.

Afterwards, he held her in his arms. “That was . . . .” He trailed off.

Sara found herself puzzled, and then she realized. The encounters with showgirls and well-paid prostitutes, when he was a man-about-town. The faithless first fiancée, who’d slept her way up the social ladder. The wife who’d been more interested in the role he could fill than the man himself. Had any of them climaxed, or was it all a show they put on to get what they wanted? Sara’s lovers had always known that what they gave and what they received was mutual. Poor John, she thought. Then she had something to teach him.

Having caught her breath sufficiently, she pulled away slightly, and rolled him over so that now she was on top. She slid herself onto his erect member, thrusting as he picked up the rhythm. She rode him as he lifted his hips upward, and again she felt the light and the heat. She heard him moaning this time, and allowed herself to once again fall into that place, as his shudders beneath her told her they were going there together, this time.

Afterwards, as they lay together and he stroked her hair, he asked, “And how was it this time?”

And she answered, letting him know she’d remembered all these years, “Rather wonderful.”

He smiled, mischievously. “Only rather?”

And she nestled beside him. “Entirely. Entirely wonderful.”

The rest, they’d have to work out as it went along. It wouldn’t all be easy. But she remembered what he’d said to her when he proposed, all those years ago, when she’d thought he was more than half joking. That he’d wait for her, until she was Chief of Detectives or whatever it took. He hadn’t waited, but here they were, both where they’d wanted to be – he a father, and in a senior position at the New York Times, she the head of her own detective agency. Except there had been an empty place, that only each other could fill.

She’d never believed in happy endings, but this was as close, she suspected, as one could get.


End file.
